I love to get letters. There's a tremor of anticipation whenever I hear the creak of the mail truck approaching out front.

As Garrison Keillor said, “A letter is such a sweet gift, a piece of handmade writing in an envelope that is not a bill. Letters don't need to be important, just sincere. Unlike a phone call, they can be read twice and again tomorrow.”

Of course, rule number one for those who like to get letters is: “Who writes, receives.”

Keillor offers some helpful advice to those who don't know how to get a letter started.

First: “Get over the guilt of not writing. You don't ‘owe' anybody a letter. Letters are a gift. The shame you may feel when you see unanswered mail makes it harder to pick up a pen. That makes for a cheerless letter when you finally do. Skip the guilt.”

Second: “Some of the best letters are tossed off in a burst of inspiration, so keep your writing stuff in one place. Envelopes, stamps, address book, everything in a drawer so you can write fast when the pen is hot.”

Third: “Write as if you were talking. Don't think about grammar or style, just give the news. Where did you go, who did you see, what did they say, what do you think.”

Fourth: “Don't worry about form. It's not a term paper. The more you write, the easier it gets, and when you have a true friend to write to, then it's like driving a car; just press on the gas.”

There are lots of things I like about letters. They are tangible to hold in your hand, to show around and share, or to tuck in a pocket and think about. Letters have room in them for long pauses and reflection. They improve with wit and philosophy and recollected past. They are the expression of our human sociability. Even more than a phone call, they truly “reach out and touch someone.”

Family letters are a precious resource. Where but in letters is it so tellingly recorded who our loved ones are, and how their lives are spent? It's good to write even when there's nothing much to say. It's enough to tell about Sunday supper, the school concert, the length of icicles and the dog acting foolish.

Letters can be written anywhere, wherever we happen to be and whenever a lull falls. “The car's up on the lube rack ...” “I'm under the hair dryer ...” “I'm here at the airport waiting for Sue.” The letters go out with no obligations attached. No one keeps score. Those who receive are touched, happily surprised and will write back when they can, in their own good time.

Talking on the phone is OK, but a letter is better. It says, “You're someone I care about and think of often.” For sure, I want Aunt Ida to know that I took a ride on the Erie Canal; that the laryngitis finally went away; that the grass is suddenly growing ... and all those other dear people, now far away, can be brought close by a little chit-chat via pen. Then - in a few days or weeks - perhaps the mailman will place in the old mailbox a lovely envelope or two - filled with good conversation for me.

Dorothy Nelson lives and writes in Auburn